of oblivion without rent or seam sinks again upon the
visions of this past of mine. It falls, as it were, on the last of the
scenes in the dreadful chamber of the pit, to rise once more far from
Byzantium.

I am blind and can see nothing, for the power which enables me to
disinter what lies buried beneath the weight and wreck of so many ages
tells me no more than those things that once my senses knew. What I did
not hear then I do not hear now; what I did not see then I do not see
now. Thus it comes about that of Lesbos itself, of the shape of its
mountains or the colour of its seas I can tell nothing more than I
was told, because my sight never dwelt on them in any life that I can
remember.

It was evening. The heat of the sun had passed and the night breeze blew
through the wide, cool chamber in which I sat with Martina, whom the
soldiers, in their rude fashion, called "Olaf's Brown Dog." For brown
was her colouring, and she led me from place to place as dogs are
trained to lead blind men. Yet against her the roughest of them never
said an evil word; not from fear, but because they knew that none could
be said.

Martina was talking, she who always loved to talk, if not of one thing,
then of another.

"God-son," she said, "although you are a great grumbler, I tell you that
in my judgment you were born under a lucky star, or saint, call it which
you will. For instance, when you were walking up and down that Hall of
the Pit in the palace at Constantinople, which I always dream of now if
I sup too late----"

"And your spirit, or double, or whatever you call it, was kindly leading
me round the edge of the death-trap," I interrupted.

"----and my spirit, or double, making itself useful for once, was doing
what you say, well, who would have thought that before so very long you
would be the governor, much beloved, of the rich and prosperous island
of Lesbos; still the commander, much beloved, of troops, many of them
your own countrymen, and, although you are blind, the Imperial general
who has dealt the Moslems one of the worst defeats they have suffered
for a long while."

"Jodd and the others did that," I answered. "I only sat here and made
the plans."

"Jodd!" she exclaimed with contempt. "Jodd has no more head for plans
than a doorpost! Although it is true," she added with a softening of the
voice, "that he is a good man to lean on at a pinch, and a very terrible
fighter; also one who can keep such brain as